


The Manner of Things

by Vagrant_Blvrd



Series: Kings of Nowhere [52]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe- GTA V, M/M, Pre-Fake AH Crew, Selkies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-28 18:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17792207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagrant_Blvrd/pseuds/Vagrant_Blvrd
Summary: Michael’s meeting Gavin for bevs after a long day, and true to form the little shit’s running late.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for Anon asked for something involving [this post.](https://vagrantblvrd.tumblr.com/post/182356150986/the-michael-jones-fahc-version-of-this-in-which-he) :D?

Michael’s meeting Gavin for bevs after a long day, and true to form the little shit’s running late. 

Hasn’t answered any of the increasingly angrier texts he’s sent him, which isn’t immediate reason for worry, even with the kind of shit Gavin can get himself into without proper supervision.

He could have gotten caught up in any of the million and one “projects” he has going at any given time and lost track of time. Forgotten to charge his phone or left it in his car and not realized it. (That one’s a stretch considering Michael's half-convinced Gavin would up and die if he wasn’t on the damn thing at least once an hour.)

Point is, there’s no reason to go worrying about him just yet. 

Maybe if there was a breaking news story interrupting whatever game is playing on the television over the bar, that could be a reason to worry. (God knows Gavin’s been the source of those a few times in the past.)

So.

Michael eyes the beer he’s been working on, watered down as hell and honestly disgusting and gets up to get something better. Weaves his way between tables and cheerful enough idiots threaded through the place here and there other people who are varying degrees of drunk.

Pulls up short when one asshole in particular pinballs between his table and the back of some poor bastard's chair in front of him, loud and obnoxious and no apologies for any of it as he staggers away. Michael scowls after him, looking down to where someone’s coat has been knocked off the back of his chair to land over Michael’s feet. 

The damn thing’s heavier than it looks when he picks it up. This black leather jacket with fur trim around the collar. Real fur going by how ridiculously soft it is against his skin, and Michael may or may not run his fingers through the fur before he looks up to find the owner. 

Ridiculously good looking guy with gorgeous eyes, hair pulled up in an artfully messy man bun and this look on his face that’s somewhere between horrified and bitterly resigned, which.

Michael’s not some high-class motherfucker, but going by the guy’s expression you’d think he’s the shit you’d scrape off the bottom of your shoe after traipsing through the sewers or something.

Any shred of good will or whatever the hell Michael might have had for the guy goes right out the window at that.

“Take better care of your shit, asshole,” he says, and tosses the damn coat at him.

Not quite at his face, but it’s not like Michael could miss considering they’re within arm’s reach of each other.

Michael doesn’t stick around for the asshole's reaction, just makes his way out to the street to let Gavin know not to bother heading to the bar and goes home.

========

Michael’s not enough of a name yet in Los Santos to have to worry too much about any enemies he might have made in the city coming after him.

Not like goddamned Gavin and the toes he happily steamrollers over like it’s a damn Olympic event, or the handful of people Michael likes well enough to give a shit if they land themselves in how water.

He’s pretty much a non-entity here, and likes it that way. Doesn’t have to worry about getting a knife in his back or worse every waking moment, so - 

“The fuck.”

The guy from the bar who seemed disgusted to even be breathing same air as Michael is at his front door. Has this awkward, uncomfortable looking smile on his face and looks like he’s about to puke.

“Hi?” he says, giving Michael this pathetic little wave like he has no idea what he’s doing. “Uh. I don’t know if you remember me, but - “

Michael's eyes narrow as he looks the guy over.

Big guy, well built. Doesn’t seem like he’s about to haul off and murder the hell out of Michael, but you can never tell with people in this city.

“You’re the asshole from the bar,” Michael says flatly. And then, because it’s a valid question. “Did you fucking follow me home?”

The asshole laughs, a sheepish _ha, ha, ha,_ thing as he looks away - and most importantly - _doesn’t deny it_.

“The fuck.”

The asshole does that awkward little laugh again. Shoves a small box at Michael and backs up a step, hopeful edge to that smile this time.

The smart thing to do here is throw the damn box in the idiot’s face and slam the door. Hell, use the gun he’s holding just out of the guy’s line of sight – scare him off if nothing else, _but._

Michael likes his apartment, shitty as it is. It had been hard enough finding a place like it for the amount of rent his landlord’s asking for, and the neighbors aren’t nosy fucks.

It would suck to cause some kind of ruckus that would force him to get a new place because of this asshole.

Michael opens the box, not really sure what to expect, and -

“The fuck.”

The asshole laughs again, all sheepish awkward moron about it, and Michael looks up at him. Sees the way the guy’s rubbing the back of his head, is actually blushing as he avoids making eye contact like a pro.

“Is this what I fucking think it is?”

Michael doesn’t have much personal experience with engagement rings, but it’s pretty obvious what he’s holding is. 

“Well,” the asshole says, suddenly shy as he looks up at Michael through his eyelashes. “After last night, I thought you might appreciate getting married by human customs as well.”

 _What_.


	2. Chapter 2

Michael can honestly say he didn’t expect to start his day with a surprisingly blasé overview of selkies and their horrific history with humans, and _yet_.

“Okay,” he says, wondering if someone slipped something into his beer the night before. “Okay.”

Human beings are apparently shittier than previously expected, and somehow Michael is in no way surprised by this.

Because humans are assholes.

Not all the time in every way, but yeah.

Humans are assholes, and speaking of - 

The asshole from the bar is watching him with this crooked smile on his face. Nervous energy to him like he’s worried Michael isn’t fucking ecstatic about their beautiful marriage. 

“Okay,” Michael says again, because it’s too damn early to deal with this without caffeine. “Do you – do you have a name?”

He sounds like a complete asshole with that question, sure. But to be fair, at no point in time since their paths crossed has the other asshole in the room bothered to introduce himself.

No, he tracked Michael down after the bar, didn’t he. Went and knocked on Michael’s door like the asshole he is and dropped the whole marriage thing on Michael. (Michael doesn’t know if he keeps an engagement ring on him in case this exact situation crops up or if he stopped to get one on the way.)

Michael’s processing the bit about selkies and the implication that all the half-remembered stories and fairy-tales from his childhood are real. 

Well, that or this asshole latched onto selkie mythology a little too hard.

The asshole blinks, frowns as he goes back over everything he’s said since Michael opened his door, takes a side journey.

“Oh.”

This soft sigh like he’s done this kind of thing before. Got so caught up in things he up and forgot something as basic as telling someone else his name. 

“Uh,” he says, that sheepish laugh of his again as he ducks his head. “I’m Ryan.”

Ryan.

 _Ryan_.

Not the sort of name he’d expect someone claiming to be a selkie to have, but what the fuck ever. 

“Nice to meet you, Ryan,” Michael says. “I’m Michael.”

It’s...it’s definitely something watching the way Ryan reacts to hearing Michael’s name, the way his eyes go all wide for a moment, mouth tripping into this brutally honest smile. 

All quiet wonder and shit, and Michael looks away because nothing he’s ever done deserves that kind of response.

“I need coffee,” he says, and all but throws himself into his kitchen where his crappy coffee maker lives. “You want any?”

Seems polite to offer a cup to the guy who insists they’re married now according to the customs of his people – seriously what the fuck – because manners or something.

Whatever.

Ryan doesn’t answer right away, which is totally not strange, no. (Especially since he still seems hung up on learning Michael’s name.)

Michael eyes his coffee maker as it gurgles and grumbles to itself, makes an unsettling groaning noise before it grudgingly spits out enough coffee for two people.

Michael splits the coffee between two mugs and hesitates before deciding to go all out. Adds powdered creamer and sugar in one mug and leaves the other black.

When he goes back to the living room, he holds the mugs out to let Ryan pick which one he wants.  
Ryan frowns up at him.

“I wasn’t sure how you liked your coffee or if you even drink it, so, you know. A whole plethora of choices for you here if you do.”

And if Ryan doesn’t drink coffee, double the caffeine for Michael, so.

Ryan’s frown smooths out into this dumb smile as he reaches for the mug with the creamer and sugar.

“Thank you,” he says, all soft and sweet and Michael - 

Michael shrugs and sits down across from him. Watches this lunatic who thinks he’s a selkie and is stupid... _stupid_ about it.

“I’m not - ” Michael’s breaks off, not sure how to tell Ryan he’s out of his goddamned mind because he’s so - Michael doesn’t even _know_ about it. (He’s not so much matter-of-fact about it as just, casual. Like it’s just how things are, and he can’t comprehend someone not understanding that.)

Aside from the whole selkie thing, and the stalking thing, and everything else, he doesn’t strike Michael as being a lunatic.

Okay, no.

Ryan is acting like a lunatic, but somehow doesn’t come across as threatening.

Watching Ryan sip his coffee, this tiny blissed out smile on his face, Michael is having a hard time seeing him as any way threatening, even though he knows better than that.

“No offense,” Michael says, “but you realize how all of this sounds, right?”

Ryan laughs, quiet chuckle and this _smile_.

“I’ve been told that before, yes,” he says, cocking his head. “I could show you?”

That - 

Michael opens his mouth to say something, but his phone shrieks. 

That horrible message notification Gavin likes to change it to when he gets his grubby little hands on Michael’s phone without him noticing. 

“Christ,” Michael mutters, trying to pinpoint where the godawful screeching is coming from just to make the noise stop. Zeroes in on his jacket hanging up by the door. “Hold on to that thought, okay?”

He sees Ryan frown out of the corner of his eye as he walks past him, but he’s focused on getting the goddamned noise to _stop_.

“The fuck do you want?” he demands when he digs it out of a pocket and accepts the call.

“Michael boi,” Gavin says, this strained note to his voice. “Sorry about missing out on getting bevs with you last night.”

Michael almost, almost, doesn’t catch the strained note to Gavin’s voice over his own incredulousness and rising annoyance. But then the idiot coughs. This rough thing that sounds like it hurts even over the shitty reception.

“Where the hell are you?”

Gavin being Gavin, he misunderstands the question. Takes them on a tangent for a while before Michael threatens to hang up on him unless he gives him a straight answer for once in his damn life. (A slight exaggeration perhaps, but only just.)

The idiot’s down by the docks and Michael doesn’t ask why when Gavin’s already being this difficult. 

“I need to kill anyone?” Michael asks, and it almost, almost sounds like a joke.

Enough to get Gavin to laugh, at least, so whatever happened he’s probably not about to die on Michael.

“No, Michael, no,” Gavin says, and Michael almost, almost believes him.

Gavin has this habit of getting into trouble and acting like he isn’t, and God forbid the little shit ever ask for help when he is. 

Oh, sure. Gavin will ask for favors and “lemon jim-jams” all goddamned day if you let him. Small inconveniences and annoyances for the most part. But when shit goes wrong for him, good fucking luck trying to pry the tiniest shred of information about it out of him.

“Alright,” he says, as if he’s not going to squeeze answers out of him later. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He doesn’t hang up just yet, waits to see if Gavin’s got anything else to say, but all he gets is a quiet thanks from the asshole. (Relief and gratitude, this shaky exhale as though he honestly thought Michael wouldn’t help.) 

“Be careful, asshole,” Michael says, not bothering to hide his concern because Gavin’s that kind of idiot, and ends the call.

Ryan clears his throat, this polite thing that’s got a touch of awkwardness to it that pulls Michael’s attention back to him. 

Which, you know. 

Great, because the part where Michael's a criminal which is normally a deal-breaker. 

Or should be. 

Michael’s done a lot of shit in his life and dragging Ryan into that isn’t something he wants to do. 

Michael glances over to where Ryan is sitting, no soft smiles or dopey look to him now. Not with the conversation he overheard just now, the way Michael’s acting.

“Is something wrong?” 

Christ, Michael _really_ doesn’t want to get Ryan involved in this shit. He doesn’t know him at all, but even Michael can tell he deserves better.

“You seem like a nice person,” Michael says, because Ryan does. Too nice for Michael, that's for fucking sure. “But you’ve got the wrong guy.”

He doesn’t wait for Ryan’s response to that as he gets ready to head out. 

Thankfully (disgustingly) he’s still dressed from the night before, so all he needs to do is grab his gun and pull his shoes on. Fish his keys out of the cracked bowl on the kitchen counter and make sure he’s got spare ammo before he heads out.

When he goes back into the living room, Ryan gets to his feet. Hands up like he’s placating a wild animal.

“Michael - “

Michael ignores him, decides to let Ryan see the kind of asshole he’s got his heart set on with this marriage business. Makes sure he gets a good look at the gun in the shoulder rig Michael's wearing as he puts his jacket on and gets his keys.

It’s a chickenshit way to chase Ryan off, letting Ryan piece things together himself from the phone call and the goddamn gun. The kind of city Los Santos is and the sort of person _Michael_ is.

But the other choice is to be the kind of asshole who tells Ryan to go fuck himself with his selkie shit. Get in his face and call him crazy, and Michael likes to think he’s not at that level of assholishness yet. 

“I’ve got a thing,” Michael says. “So if you don’t mind?”

Ryan’s eyes narrow, set to his jaw like he knows exactly what Michael's doing but – surprisingly – he lets him get away with it. Shuts his damn mouth and picks his things up, moves towards the door.

“You forgot something,” Michael says, because the asshole left the box with the engagement ring on his coffee table like he thought Michael wouldn’t notice.

Ryan stops dead, and turns to look Michael right in the fucking eye.

“No,” he says. “I don’t think I did.”

Ryan _smiles_ and leaves before Michael can think of a decent retort. Waltzes out of there so goddamned smug about getting the last word.

Michael doesn’t know what’s going on in his life right now, but he sure as hell doesn’t have the time to stand around trying to figure it out. 

So.

“Fucking fine,” Michael mutters, and makes sure to lock up behind himself.


End file.
